


kindling

by localcrypted



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Chronic Pain, M/M, Past Injuries, chessboxing verse, i hurt my boys a lot sometimes, its a weird one lads, just tryin our best, vague and unsubtle metaphors, we out here livin tho with our janky ass bodies and occasionally janky ass minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localcrypted/pseuds/localcrypted
Summary: kindling. noun.easily combustible material; used for starting a fire.brian is healing. pat maintains.





	kindling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishcola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the subtle science and exact art of chess-boxing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931885) by [fishcola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola). 

> hi id like to thank the wonderful fish for letting me play in their sandbox
> 
> (mostly unedited, but. i have to leave for work in an hour and literally poured out the last, like fourth of this in the last hour and a half and wanted to just post it already.)

“Patrick,” Brian whines, drawing out both syllables. “Let me _ help _you.” The way Pat shakes his head is firm, though, and full of resolve. “Nope. You’re sitting the fuck down tonight, kid.”

Honestly, Bri’s getting tired of being forced into, essentially, _ not _ working at work. Hell, Brian’s tired of a lot of things that have all happened as a result of fucking up his ankle spectacularly.

He misses dance—misses the endorphins (almost as good as sex, really, and not that he’d ever say it but maybe sometimes _ better _), the way Brian can control his body absolutely— 

_ jeté, chassé, sauté, piqué, left tendu; close in first, sousou, attitude jump, coupé into left fourth, pirouette _ —and it all requires that he tense his arms and abs and calves, points his feet, move with conscious effort. Like, sure, you _ could _ not, but dance is deliberate in a way that Bri has always adored.

So, yeah, maybe every consequence that stems from letting his fucked up body heal isn’t exactly torture, except for when it is, or when it’s really fuckin’ close. It’s torture in that it feels like he can never _ do _ anything, forever-slash-for-now destined to wait and be patient.

(Brian doesn’t want to be patient, though, despite—logically—knowing that he has to be.)

“Pat,” he tries to argue again, “you shouldn’t have to do everything all the time. That’s not fair, especially since I’m getting paid to, y’know, _ do _ work.”

“Tough shit,” Pat says, though his tone holds a hint of fond amusement. “_ Rest.” _

Bri pouts. “Make me,” he mumbles, but he nevertheless sprawls out in the booth he usually commandeers for this exact purpose, the one that’s somewhat close to front counter and has a comfortable leg-elevating distance between the seats.

His boyfriend rolls his eyes and resumes his post at the register. Pat’s scowl, per usual, deters all but the most stubborn or desperate of custies. Brian doesn’t think he could ever frown like that—hard enough to rival granite—but he wonders if his more frequent winces were what made Pat so insistent he sit down for awhile, today.

The hours of their shift drip by, time split between flurries of students, rounds of smash and chess, Brian postponing revising his orgo notes in favor of greedily looking over another of Pat’s essays, and the increasingly steady flashes of sharp pain radiating from his ankle. 

_ It’s not fair _ , he catches himself thinking. _ I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. Why can’t it be fucking _ fixed _ by now? _

((He remembers limping into rehearsal the first time after he’d fucked it up spectacularly, clumsily maneuvering into the studio with the crutches he borrowed from Allegra. His instructor immediately commanding him to sit in a stern voice, even finding him two chairs so he could elevate his ankle properly. _ Take care of yourself, _ she’d said. _ Do what the clinic said to do—to the _ letter— _ work on the PT exercises they gave you, for now, and let it _ heal _ . _)

It's ages before he's allowed to just mark time again, even with his brace. He’s not supposed to jump, though, or stand on it for long periods at a time, or stress it in general. Or basically do anything that is mildly enjoyable. The worst part is when it pains Brian enough that he doesn’t mind foregoing any of those things.)

When their shift is over, Pat insists on carrying Brian back to Ridley. Normally, Brian resists, hobbles ungracefully next to Patrick (who unsubtly slows his long, lanky-legged footsteps enough for Bri to keep up) till they reach the other end of campus. Tonight, though, he’s too exhausted from the stabs of pain he feels at the slightest pressure on his ankle to keep up with pretense. Brian nods instead of contesting Pat’s demands, which only serves to increase the concern he can see in Pat’s eyes.

Holding Brian like this has to be uncomfortable for Pat, but he says nothing. Just makes idle chatter with him as he clings to Pat, sinewy strong arms supporting Brian’s weight. Lets Brian rest his chin on Pat’s shoulders. Slowly crosses the threshold to Ridley, lowers Bri gently onto Pat’s bed. Gives him a couple ibuprofen to take as he cautiously removes the brace.

(One of the collection he’s managed to amass, actually—there’s also a compression wrap reminiscent of a shorter and narrower ace bandage, but Bri’s presently donned one that has strips of metal embedded in the sides (something about _ lateral support _, the campus clinic had said) and also laces up like a tennis shoe. Plus strips that pass over the arch of his foot and attach to the other side with velcro.)

“I hate this,” Brian mutters. 

Pat hums in agreement. “Yeah. Joints suck—a whole goddamn _ lot _—when you fuck ‘em up.” 

“Just—” he sighs. “I want it to be better. Now. I wanna do more than mark time or whatever.”

“It’s better though, in the long run. Sucks now, but. Makes it suck less later. Christ, I would know,” Pat frowns, voice bitter. He spends a few seconds pulling each of his arms across his chest before crawling under the covers with Bri, who ignores the sharp flash that passes through him as he positions himself against Patrick.

The lights are off, and he can feel the heat emanating from Pat’s ribcage. “Does it—fuck, I just. Does it make me… a burden? Or something. My ankle, that is,” Brian rambles.

“No, Bri,” Pat whispers, pulling him closer, “it’s not a fucking _ burden _ if you need help. If sometimes it hurts or doing something is harder or you have to do it different.”

“_ You _ never ask for help.”

“Yeah, cause I’m a stubborn bastard that shouldn’t be an example followed by anyone.”

Instead of replying, Brian chuckles but then brings Pat’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss onto the skin just below his knuckles. “I’d help, y’know,” he whispers back. “If you asked.”

“I know.” Pat kisses the crown of Brian’s head, squeezes him as securely as Bri allows. “Believe me, I know."

  


* * *

  


Pat aches.

He _ aches _ —feels his muscles and joints stiffen with soreness—the ebb and flow of existence. His shoulders _ click click click _ if he rolls them a certain way, knees twinge sharply at the end of long caf shifts. His wrists, even— _ pop _ goes Pat’s knuckles, a spasm felt in his very _ bones _—his tendons seem to constantly contract with no release.

He could find _ something _ to do about it, to change this status quo he’s maintained. He _ should _— 

but never does. It’s never a big enough deal, never truly, _ truly _ unbearable, never quite reaching anything approaching agony. Pat doesn’t _ usually _ feel a roaring fire singeing his nerves into ash; no, it’s dull, throbbing, definitely _ there _ but not sharp to the point of unmanageable. Remnants that flicker but never fully snuffed out. Not an uncontrollable blaze.

Brian gets it, maybe. Sometimes. Pat’s not sure.

Maybe Brian gets the feeling of a persistent, muted burning that spreads rapidly, not a white-hot flame but a grating ache that refuses to extinguish. The kind of pain that doesn’t like to go away, one that pulls at your nerves and drives you to irritable frustration on the better-but-not-best days, and to inevitable explosions on the worst.

Pat should take some ibuprofen, tylenol—something, _ anything _—today his wrist and hand have been endlessly sore. Bri would take something. Swallow a couple advil, go about his day the best he can, try to—eventually will—forget the pain for the time being. 

He doesn’t. He _ is _ sitting at a caf booth at one forty-five am trying to write an essay he hasn’t started that’s due in the morning with a hand that refuses to stop cramping as he types, and Pat can tell Brian is getting increasingly fraught at his adamant rejection of any note taking on paper.

(Not only is Pat’s handwriting terrible enough that he doesn’t understand how Bri can even read it, but also writing things out is somehow even worse than using his laptop.)

(He’s never told anyone this, how these past few years gripping pens and pencils make his wrist sore, knuckles ache, fingers stiff but shaky to the point of nearly vibrating. Pat nods along to what Brian is smartly lecturing about and massages his hand instead. Continues to not tell anyone fucking anything about the pain that follows Pat as if it were his own shadow.)

“ —Pat? Patrick. Pat, lover of mine and haver of quite a spectacular ass—”

Brian’s not dramatically waving a hand in front of his face, when Pat’s focus zones back in—thank fucking _ christ _—but he thinks maybe Bri had been trying to get his attention for a while before succeeding. Pat ignores this thought in favor of sprawling out even more on his side of the booth.

His boyfriend sighs, caps his expo marker as he slides into the seat across from Pat, and leaves the neat, uniform letters on the white board to silently menace him as Brian gently moves Pat’s laptop. “What’s up?”

Pat shrugs, and his shoulder sparks for a second. It’s a familiar twinge of pain, though, more of a constant discomfort than _ real _ pain. Easy to ignore, around for long enough already that it seems pointless for someone to know.

The silence that drags on and on and _ on _ is telling—Bri is _ studying _ Pat, trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t know a lot of the answers to, avoiding landmines as his beautiful mind probes Pat’s brain. 

“... You’re hurting,” he finally states, voice chock-full of nerves but also surety that he’s right. 

“Yeah, right,” Pat says. “Trust me, kid, I’m _ fine _.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just not in the mood to write an essay,” he lies easily—the best lies hold some truth, after all—and Bri frowns but persists. “Okay, sure, but don’t fucking lie to me, Pat. I can see it. I know that you’re _ in pain, _ and that you refuse to do anything about it.”

“It’s not like that,” Pat scoffs, “you’re making a big deal over something that isn’t that big of a problem.”

Brian worries at his lip for a minute. “I’m—don’t say that it’s not big enough of a problem. Humor me, if you have to, but,” he stops, rummages in his bag for a few seconds. Pulls out his bottle of advil and sets it in front of Pat. “You shouldn’t just—fuck, I dunno—you wouldn’t let it go if it was me.” His hazel-green eyes are earnest, boring into Pat unafraid even as he scowls in frustration. Then Pat scolds himself, because what the _ fuck, _ Brian is his boyfriend and not some dick that deserves the sparks of anger he does his best— okay, _ sometimes _ tries his best—to not fan into flames.

“Fine,” he agrees eventually, grabbing the bottle and easily prying the childproof cap off the top. Brian looks somewhat satisfied when Pat pops a few pills into his mouth, the faintest of smiles visible as Pat walks behind the front counter into caf’s kitchen to, presumably, wash down the meds with something to drink.

He doesn’t, though.

Pat quietly spits out the cheeked pills in a trash can, makes himself a cup of water that’s mostly for show, and walks back to his and Bri’s booth. The twinges and aches and soreness aren’t worthy of attention, and Pat doesn’t need help from fucking pills to power through lingering pains from injuries that aren’t even _ new. _ If you could even call it that.

(Brian likes to call it that. Pat likes to pretend there won’t be a day he has to admit Brian is right.)

  


* * *

  
  
  
There are good days, too. Days his ankle hurts less, or at least not enough he remembers it constantly, and it feels like this part of him is finally, _ finally _ , close to healing. Days where Brian isn’t bitter at his body, or the way he’s prone to a hitch in his steps, or the occasional uncontrollable grimace that makes itself known on his face. Days where he’s not fully cured, because Bri isn’t that naive, but days where he’s closer to more than _ just fine _ than others.

He and Pat seem like they’re made for each other, some days; on the worse ones it’s Pat that really nags Brian into taking a break, not letting him push himself too far. It’s harder to see Pat’s bad days, because he rarely wears them on his face—on a surface anyone could see—but Bri watches, calculates. Every so often when it's late and there's no custies, will go, “Wanna play some smash?" and gesture to _ their _ booth where they can both stretch their limbs out from their bodies, grant aching joints and bones some kind of a reprieve. Pretend he can't see the way Pat extends his legs but physically stops himself from massaging his knees. Or his shoulders. Or his _ anything _, more often than not.

Pat’s been scowling since the two of them woke up tangled together in Pat’s bed. His face sometimes goes blank—when he thinks Bri’s not paying attention—the way Pat gets when he’s _ reveling _ in his pain, almost, using it as a distraction from the worst parts of his day. Lets himself suffer because he wants to feel hurt—whether because he thinks he deserves it or because he uses it to push away the anger that so clearly bubbles under Pat’s skin, Brian doesn’t know—uses it to _ maintain. _

Maintaining must be pretty hard today, though, because they haven’t even gotten dressed and Pat’s having trouble. 

Pat seems to recognize this too, sighs as he digs out an old ace bandage from a drawer and starts to neatly encircle his knee a few times. When he’s done, Pat expertly fastens and ties off the end, tucking the tail into another layer before carefully testing the joint.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wrap up an injury that isn’t mine before,” Brian probes, “ ‘s a little weird.”

His boyfriend hums noncommittally in response, as if either answer to Bri’s vague statement is a move that ends in checkmate. “I’m fine. Just—sore. Probly gonna rain today,” Pat mutters. 

He clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter, anyways. No one likes to hear people bitch about things that are useless to bitch about.”

Brian frowns at that. “I don’t mind,” he interjects softly. “Fuck knows how often you listen to me.”

“You’ve done everything you were told, though. I fucked myself over.”

“So?” he asks, tone somewhere in the realm of sarcastic. “You’re still in pain.”

“It’s not being _ in pain, _ for fuck’s sake. It’s just—being sore. Occasional aches.”

Both of them are quiet, for a long beat. Pat’s expression is unreadable, to him—Brian somehow vaguely incredulous, even though he shouldn’t expect different from Pat by now. Pat doesn’t like to do _ help _, or resting, or concern for his own needs. 

He sighs, but pushes himself out from under the covers. “You should take some ibuprofen, at least.”

Pat scoffs at Brian, throwing him off-kilter for a second. “Kid, I rarely took the _ good stuff _ they gave me, way back when, when I was _ actually _hurt.” He harshly pulls the skinny black denim of his jeans over his knees, up to his bony hips and undefined but—Bri knows from experience—incredibly muscled abdomen. Before he can pull on a t-shirt, Brian entangles himself in Pat’s space, his body, peppering his coarse stubble with slow, drowsy kisses.

“Really?” he’s finally able to ask once he breaks away. “Why?”

Brian can feel the violent huff of hot air that Pat’s sigh pulls out of him, strong enough to lift the tips of Bri’s bangs up to his hairline with how close he is to Patrick. They’re face to face, but Pat looks away. “Easier,” he finally admits. It’s hard to decipher whether or not the hints of shame and embarrassment are really there, or if Brian is imagining them.

He waits, for a second, and the silence gets to Pat because evidently, he’s not done. “I like to feel it. Teaches—teaches the lesson more. Uh. More _ effectively. _ And,” Pat’s laugh turns dark while he turns his back to Bri to finish dressing, “cheeking pills isn’t _ that _ hard to learn.” 

The dark pride in Pat’s voice scares him, a little, as Pat steps into his boots and tightly laces them like his morning has been entirely ordinary. Everything per usual.

Actually, Brian considers as he stands frozen, long after Pat’s quickly pecked his lips with a kiss and hurried out of the room with a rushed, “Bye, kid, see you at lunch,” maybe what scares him more is the thought that for Pat—even with pain that he refuses to name as such—the morning _ has _been. 

* * *

  
  
“Here,” Brian says, offering an ice pack to Pat. He tries to brush it off, at first, but Bri doesn’t let him—stares at Pat intensely until he finally relents.

“What ‘m I even supposed to put this on, huh?”

The kid shrugs. “Wherever you think you need it most, right now?” Pat deeply exhales, but thinks for just a split second before positioning the cold material just right against his shoulder blade, then leans back against the booth in the empty caf lobby. 

Pat doesn’t know why he’s surprised, that the chill brings some relief as it presses against his aching back, but he is. He lets himself relax into the feeling, allows his eyes to close in contentedness, tries to not sigh outwardly with the fucking _ gloriousness _ of the cool seeping into his aching joints. It’s only a minute that he spares for himself, because any longer and Brian’ll—well. He’ll be _ something. _ Take Pat’s reactions out of proportion.

His next breath is deep as he shakes himself out of it—attempting to concentrate on his laptop and his essays and not fucking _ fidgeting _ or massaging some of the soreness from his perpetually stiff hands and wrists. Which, _ fuck. _ Pat’s totally doing that right now.

Brian is definitely watching Pat with caution as he sighs again, this time with frustration coloring his breath, before shaking his hands out and rests his hands on the keys while the cursor blinks damningly.

“Y’know,” he chimes in after Pat’s silently stared at the screen with only slight progress made in the past hour, “if your wrist is really hurting that bad—they make, like—wrist braces. And stuff.”

It’s easy for Pat to avoid Bri’s eyes, so he does, flexing his long, spindly fingers in multiple directions without meeting his boyfriend’s gaze. “It’s not—” he finally manages, exasperated, “this isn’t _ new. _ I’m not fuckin’ weak.”

Brian stares hard into Pat’s soul, like he can see the slow, steady tongue of flame that licks his nerves and joints nearly every waking moment. Like he sees it, and knows that Pat feels it but never shows it because it’s so fucking _ easy _ (and so _ fucking hard, _ at the same time) to hide from the world.

“You think it makes you weak?” 

The tone isn’t—it’s not _ really _ accusatory, Pat thinks, but it’s not innocent either. Brian doesn’t give him the chance to interject.

“Am I _ weak _ for wearing _ my _ brace more often than not, even though it’s been ages since I first fucked up my ankle?”

“No, but—Bri—”

“So why is it any different,” he calmly states—asks? “Why do you refuse things that are literally made to help you.” 

“I don’t _ need _ them.” It’s hard to decipher Brian’s face, honestly, but Pat thinks it maybe turns a little sad at his words. He’s not sure what to do with that information.

His boyfriend sighs, leaning his elbows against the shitty caf table and inserts himself into Pat’s space. “You’re pretty good at hiding stuff, Pat, I’ll give you that,” he confesses while pinching the bridge of his nose. Gently, Brian glances at him once more. “But—I’ve heard how you talk about cheeking pills. Like it’s something to be _ proud _ of.”

Bri’s eyes are prompting, waiting for Pat to stop him, say _ something, _ but his tongue feels as though it’s glued to the roof of his mouth, like Pat doesn’t have any words left other than angry screams that aren’t rising to the surface. Brian keeps going.

“... How you _ have, _ ” he adds, somberly—sadly?—Pat can’t tell. “Because—I’ve. I’ve seen ibuprofen I _ know _ I made you take, _ saw _ you take,” his voice cracks, “spat out in the trash.”

Pat could—he _ could _ get angry. Fuck, he _ wants _ to get angry. Wants to self-implode, as if that will make the fucking best thing that’s ever happened to him feel less hurt than what Brian is feeling now, get rid of the tears that Pat can see welling up in the unjaded eyes across from his own. 

“Look, I—” and _ damn, _ why is his throat choking his words, his voice betraying him by wavering unsteadily, “—if I took drugs every time I—fucking, _ fine, _ every time I was in pain—I’d have to never stop taking them. And they’d stop working. Fucking, I’d do fuckin’ acid before I’d take any hydrocodone, or oxy, or anything,” he punctuates with a bitter laugh. “Some things you just gotta push through, and taking whatever bullshit cause someone says ‘it’s a problem’ just makes shit worse.”

Brian bites his lip anxiously. “And you feel like you deserve it. And it’s easier to hurt, to be in _ physical _ pain, than any other kind, right?”

Pat doesn’t know why he's caught off guard, that this beautiful, intelligent wunderkind can suss out things he doesn’t know how to say himself. Doesn’t _ want _ to say himself. So he doesn’t. “It’s—it’s weird,” he mutters hesitantly. Brian can hear him clearly, though, above the hum of caf’s lights and the whir of Pat’s laptop.

“—it’s weird, but. It’s not worth complaining and running my mouth about. I mean, other people have it worse than just some aches that don’t go away.”

“So, what, you just feel like it’s not a big enough problem to mention? Even when,” Brian gestures his hands towards Pat’s entire body, “it’s _ clearly _ affecting you so fucking much every goddamn day of your life?”

Pat nearly chokes on air. It paralyzes him—can’t move, can’t breathe, mind stuck revolving around the dissonance Brian’s words bring.

_ just feel like it's not a big enough problem to mention? _

“Brian, look—” he tries, but the rest gets caught in his throat. Bri’s voice softens, a little, as he keeps going. “Just because someone ‘has it worse’ than you doesn’t mean you need to put yourself through suffering that you can get help for, Pat.”

“I don’t _ need _ help,” Pat finally manages. “I’ve survived this far without it already.”

“But you don’t _ have _ to.”

“Fuck, Bri, why does it even matter?”

“Because I love you, Pat,” he croaks, his entire body trembling hard enough that it seeps into his voice, “even when you’re acting like a stubborn ass about things, and I care about your well-being. And it hurts _ me _ inside, to see that _ you’re _ hurting all the time, okay?”

“Brian—” he trails off, not even sure of where he was going. When Pat’s finally able to make himself meet Brian’s eyes again, they’re warm, not quite so full of unshed tears anymore.

“Just because you _ can _ keep this stuff from people doesn’t mean that you _ should _ .” Pause. Then, ever so carefully, a murmured, “Why is it okay when it’s me, but for you it’s _ unnecessary _?”

“Look, it just is, alright?” The chill is starting to fade from Pat’s shoulder blade, starting to lose in the combat against the ever-burning kindle of his bones, and tendons, and nerves, and muscles. He mourns the short-but-incomparable relief, and welcomes the familiarity of the aches starting to break through once more, sparking inside Pat and allowing the fire of rage to die down from the edge of explosion.

Surely Brian can’t see it, from the outside, but Pat almost swears that he hears Bri’s voice break again when he speaks. “You told me I was too pretty to be in pain, once.”

“...Yeah.”

Brian drags a hand through his hair and sighs. The words sound—resigned, desperate, something Pat can’t name but might be sadness—as they leave his mouth. “It’s not a look that fits you, either. It shouldn’t have to.”

Pat doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t—goes back to restlessly tapping his fingers on the table as he tries to make his eyes read the words he’s already written, and somehow come up with more over the buzz he feels more than hears in his head. He aches, and _ aches, _ and it’s fine. 

The soreness persists through his bones like embers that refuse die out, but Pat’s fine. He maintains. 

**Author's Note:**

> id also like to thank fish for the exact line: "just feel like it’s not a big enough problem to mention?" when my "pat definitely has some kind of chronic pain" headcanon morphed into me venting bout achey bodies but my reluctance to call _my_ pain "chronic pain." and they called me the fuck out on it lmao love ya fish <333
> 
> edit: realized i never turned on modding for comments?? if anyone feels the urge to comment and wants to me to keep it private just lmk lol
> 
> anyways if you havent read chessboxing yet its superb, you won't regret it


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